POEMS  sf  THE  PACIFIC 


GUY  SELWIN  ALLISON 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS   OF   THE  PACIFIC 


POEMS 
OF    THE    PACIFIC 

GUY  SELWIN  ALLISON 


SAN   FRANCISCO 
1918 


Copyright,    1918 

By    Guy    Selwin    Allison 

San    Francisco 


Press   of 

H.  S.  Crocker  Company 
Sa  n   Francisco 


IN    EXPLANATION 


J.N  presenting  this  little 
volume,  an  explanation  will  doubtless  be  in 
order.  For  several  years  I  have  indulged 
my  leisure  time  in  writing  down  those  thots 
which  have  been  inspired  bj?  circumstances 
with  -which  you  will  be  familiarized  as  you 
scan  these  pages.  No  thot  of  publishing 
them  in  book  form  had  entered  my  mind 
until,  from  time  to  time,  those  to  whom  I 
have  sent  the  thots  have  suggested  that 
they  would  enjoj?  having  the  entire  collec 
tion.  At  last,  those  wishes  have  overcome 
my  reticence,  and  I  am  presenting  "Poems 
of  the  Pacific,"  with  the  sincere  hope  that 
this  little  volume  ma^  contain  some  thots 
which  will  help  to  brighten  the  lives  of 
those  of  m^  relatives  and  friends  who  ma}? 
find  time  to  read  it.  Very  frequently?  the 
interest  in  a  poem  is  lost  as  the  reader 
does  not  understand  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  was  written,  hence  each 
poem  is  preceded  b^  an  explan 
atory}  paragraph 

GUY    SELWIN    ALLISON 


San  Francisco 

December 

1918 


IX 


CONTENTS 

Page 

MyThots 1 

Just  a-Wondering 2 

Let  a  Boy  Be  a  Boy 4 

Night  Is  Nigh 6 

We  Part  to  Meet  Again 7 

My  Song          ........  8 

Thou  Dying  Day 9 

A  Scene  on  Puget  Sound 11 

Ere  Slumbers  Close  Your  Eyes        ....  14 

When  We  Talk  Heart  to  Heart        ....  15 

Canoeing         ........  17 

The  Falling  Leaves 18 

'Tis  the  Bitter  Which  Sweetens  the  Joy    ...  20 

You 21 

Twilight  Thots 22 

Discovered— My  Pa 23 

Why  Should  I  Care? 24 

The  Death  Knell  of  the  Year 26 

Camping         ........  27 

Breaking  Camp 29 

The  Torrent 31 

Driftwood 33 

Life's  Web 35 

The  Undiscovered  Realm 37 

Myself 39 

Understood     ........  40 

O  Beautiful  Bellingham  Bay 41 

Today 43-44 

The  Old  Cherry  Tree 46 


POEMS  OF  THE  PACIFIC 


e> 


MY  THOTS 

O  you,  my  friends,  these  thots  I  send, 
And  with  them  kindest  greeting, 

They  are  but  gleaned  from  incidents 
In  life,  which  I  caught  fleeting. 


Some  came  to  me  at  close  of  day, 
When  I  was  worn  and  weary, 

And  others  stole  upon  me,  too, 

When  the  night  was  dark  and  dreary. 

But  some  I  drew  from  friendships  dear, 

As  in  fancy  oft  I  saw  them, 
And  some,  like  torrents  rushing  down 

The  mountain  side,  I  caught  them. 

In  musing,  too,  upon  life's  goal, 

And  on  its  Past  Forever, 
My  muse  into  those  realms  would  stroll, 

And  from  them  thots  would  sever. 

Then,  in  the  forest,  oft  alone, 
Dear  Nature  heard  my  singing, 

And  sent  her  hosts  of  birds  and  leaves 
To  set  my  harp  a-ringing. 

She  drew  me  to  the  ocean's  side 

Where  I  felt  her  great  soul  throbbing ; 

I  copied  there  the  song  she  sang, 

'Twixt  her  constant  moans  and  sobbing. 

Accept  these  thots,  will  you,  then,  please, 

For  I  am  in  them,  living, 
And  remember  too,  that  adage  old, 

"The  soulless  gift  is  not  real  giving." 


[1 


JUST  A-WONDERING 

While  living  in  Tacoma  in  1908,  upon  returning  from  my  school  work  one 
evening  I  found  a  letter  from  mother  in  which  she  said  she  was  looking 
forward  to  my  visit  home  that  summer  and  was  counting  the  days  until 
I  got  home  again.  I  sat  for  a  long  time  in  a  reminiscent  mood,  picturing 
to  myself  our  old  home  at  Kirksville,  Missouri.  I  had  but  recently  been 
advised  of  the  death  of  my  boyhood  chum,  Jesse  Rainwater,  and  con 
sequently  the  thot  of  returning  home  was  not  unmixed  with  sadness.  I 
sat  up  until  almost  midnight  writing  this  little  thot  which  I  sent  to 
mother  in  the  next  letter  I  wrote  her. 

N  silence  and  sadness  I  am  musing  alone, 

While  the  evening's  soft  shadows  slow  fall, 
And  wondering  how  in  the  far-away  home 

Are  my  loved  ones,  each  one  and  all. 
I  am  wondering  how  'round  the  hearth  fire's  bright 

glow, 

At  the  close  of  another  short  day, 
My  mother  and  father  and  one  brother,  too, 

Are  counting  the  hours  till  the  day — 
The  day  that  the  wand'rer  shall  return  to  the  fold, 
To  be  home  once  again  as  of  old. 

I'm  wondering,  too,  if  the  sweet  smiles  still  play 

On  the  faces  of  friends  I  have  known, 
And  if  they're  still  true  to  the  right  which  they  knew, 

And  are  reaping  the  sweets  they  have  sown. 
I'm  wondering,  too,  how  'twill  seem  to  be  there 

And  to  miss  a  kind  face  I  held  dear, 
Methinks  that  'twill  sadden  my  life  just  a  bit 

To  be  robbed  of  that  sweetest  of  joy, 
Of  the  heart-to-heart  talk  with  the  one  who  is  gone, 

With  the  one  whom  I  loved  as  a  boy. 

I'm  wondering,  too,  if  the  old  home  still  stands 
'Neath  the  wide-spreading  maple  nearby, 

And  if  the  peach  trees  in  the  rear  of  the  yard 
Still  send  forth  their  murmuring  sighs. 

I'm  wondering,  too,  if  the  old  apple  tree 
Still  stands,  all  spreading  and  low, 


As  it  did  in  the  days  when  I  lingered  alone 

In  its  shade,  oh,  so  long,  long  ago, 
And  if  the  old  pump,  all  moss  covered  o'er, 
Still  stands  to  keep  guard  by  the  old  kitchen  door. 

I'm  wondering,  too,  if  my  room  looks  the  same, 

With  the  walls  in  their  blue  coat  so  clean, 
If  the  carpet  of  red,  and  the  curtains  of  white, 

And  the  chairs,  and  the  bed,  and  the  screen-all — 
I'm  wondering  now  if  they  look  just  the  same 

As  they  did  when  I  bid  them  farewell, 
Or  are  they  all  changed,  or  at  least  rearranged. 

Ah,  I  wonder  if  all  is  still  well. 
But  it  bothers  me  not  for  I  see  them  as  such, 
And  Mother's  dear  hands  will  give  them  that  touch. 

So  I  wonder  and  ponder  as  night  gathers  in 

All  about  me  her  mantle  of  gray, 
And  then  I  just  think  that  the  stars  and  the  moon 

Which  are  following  in  wake  of  the  day, 
Are  guiding  and  guarding  my  loved  ones  so  dear, 

Far  away  toward  the  land  of  the  morn. 
And  then,  in  sweet  patience  I  wait  for  the  dawn, 

Which  Aurora,  in  beauty  adorns, 
So  I'm  happy  to  believe  that  tho  I'm  away, 
My  absence  is  felt  and  for  me  some  will  pray. 


[3 


LET  A  BOY  BE  A  BOY 

In  the  summer  of  1907,  while  camping  near  Lake  Washington  with  a 
schoolmate,  Amor  Foster,  we  frequently  went  out  rowing  in  the  evenings 
with  young  lady  friends.  During  the  daytime  Amor  worked  at  a  saw 
mill,  and  naturally  wore  overalls  and  an  old  colored  shirt.  Sometimes 
he  would  be  late  in  getting  to  camp  and  we  would  go  out  rowing  before 
he  had  time  to  change  his  clothes.  One  evening  I  remonstrated  with 
him  for  going  out  rowing  with  young  ladies  before  he  had  dressed  up.  He 
remarked  to  me,  "No  dude  for  me.  Just  give  me  an  old  checkered  shirt 
and  a  pah-  of  overalls  and  I'm  perfectly  comfortable.  If  the  girls  don't 
like  it  they  don't  have  to  row  with  me."  A  few  evenings  later  I  wrote 
the  following  and  gave  it  to  him. 

OME  fellers,  they  say,  would  like  to  be  big, 

Wear  collars  an'  cuffs,  an'  all  that; 
Have  black  shiny  shoes,  an'  spectickles, 

too, 

Some  sideburns,  an'  a  big  cady  hat; 
But  fur  me  an'  us  kids,  we've  thunk  it  all  out — 

No  doods  among  us,  you  kin  bet — 
Give  us  jus'  overalls,  an'  a  red  checkered  shirt, 
An'  any  straw  hat  we  kin  get. 

Don't  keer  fur  no  shoes,  nor  nothin'  like  that, 

'Cuz  our  heels  kin  strike  fire  from  the  rocks; 
It's  nonsense  to  bother  'bout  puttin'  'em  all  on, 

An'  besides  then,  you've  got  ter  wear  socks. 
An'  then,  too,  what  sense  is  there  wearin'  fur 
show, 

A  mustache,  or  sideburns,  or  specks? 
Why,  a  feller's  a  fool,  an'  a  big  one  at  that, 

Whin  his  face  with  thim  things  he  all  decks. 

What  need  has  a  feller  fur  neckties  an'  cuffs, 

When  his  neck  an'  his  wrists  should  be  bare? 
'Cuz  it  takes  so  durn  long  fur  to  put  'em  all  on, 

When  he's  swimmin'  or  chasin'  a  hare. 
Now  don't  a  kid  look  with  a  cane  or  a  book, 

When  he  kin  fish  or  play  hookey  from  school? 
Why,  it's  such  a  surprise  that  it  certainly  lies 

In  the  fact  that  he  don't  know  the  rule. 


Fur  it's  honestly  true  that  a  feller  would  die 

If  he  lived  in  the  house  all  the  time, 
An'  us  kids  all  agree — 'ceptin'  jus'  three — 

That  it's  better  to  fish  than  learn  rhyme. 
But  thim  duffers  is  slow,  as  all  of  yer  know — 

Jus'  wanter  be  smart  in  ther  books, 
But  Bill,  an'  the  rest,  an'  me,  too,  you  bet, 

Keer  nothin'  fur  them,  nor  our  looks. 

Jus'  remember  this  here  what  I'm  tellin*  to  you, 

'Cuz  nobody  thinks  that  it's  rude, 
Let  a  boy  be  a  boy,  fill  his  life  with  real  joy, 

'Cuz  there's  no  use  to  make  him  a  dood. 
Let  his  bare  feet  get  brown  an'  spread  like  a 
duck's, 

What  matter's  a  stone  bruise  or  two  ? 
Let  him  wear  overalls  with  patches  galore, 

Jus'  like  me,  an'  perhaps,  maybe  you. 

Let  him  freckle  his  face  like  a  turkey  egg's  is, 

'Cuz  it  brings  out  the  blush  in  his  cheek ; 
An'  then  shear  his  head  from  his  ears  to  his 
crown — 

Don't  matter  'f  he  looks  like  a  freak. 
I  tell  yer  this  here's  the  way  to  be  free, 

Fur  the  girls  '11  not  bother  yer  long, — 
Anyhow,  it's  the  way  that  us  kids  has  agreed, 

That's  the  right  one  to  live  all  along. 


5] 


NIGHT  IS  NIGH 

Sitting  one  evening  on  a  log  overlooking  a  pretty  little  lake,  I  was  think 
ing  of  how  beautiful  it  all  was,  when  a  friend  came  up  and  said,  "How 
I  would  love  to  have  a  painting  of  this  scene;  can't  you  paint  it  for  me?  " 
He  had  been  writing  a  letter  and  had  his  tablet  with  him.  I  requested  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  his  pencil.  He  handed  them  to  me  and  sat  down  on 
the  shore  near  me  while  I  wrote  the  following. 

HE  sun  has  sunken  in  the  west, 

The  gold  gives  way  to  gray, 
The  mountains  lose  their  bold 
outlines, 

And  indistinct  they  lay — 
Receding  far  and  meeting  sky, 
Yes,  all  is  gray  and  night  is  nigh. 

The  lake  which  by  the  noonday  sun 
Was  streaked  with  silver  hues, 

Reposes  now  in  ashen  gray, 
While  fall  the  evening  dews. 

And  yet  the  shores  by  waves  are  lashed, 

Which  ebb  and  flow,  still  unabashed. 

'Tis  eventide  and  slumbers  sweet 
Shall  soon  close  o'er  my  head, 

While  the  lake's  chafed  shores  shall  lull 

and  soothe 
Each  harsh  sound's  troubled  tread. 

Yes,  they  shall  be  sweet  lullabies, 

For  all  is  gray  and  night  is  nigh. 

The  night  has  come,  all  Nature  lies, 

In  slumbers  calm  and  deep, 
And  so  I,  too,  with  them  must  go, 

And  take  my  rest  hi  sleep. 
Yes,  to  my  bed  my  way  I'll  hie, 
For  it  is  night  and  sleep  is  nigh. 


[6] 


WE  PART  TO  MEET  AGAIN 

In  the  autumn  of  1910,  we  moved  from  South  Bend,  Washington,  to  San 
Francisco.  On  the  last  Sunday  we  were  there  I  was  asked  by  the  pastor 
of  the  Baptist  Church  to  say  a  few  words  at  the  evening  service.  The 
request  having  been  made  in  the  afternoon  previously,  I  sat  down  to 
think  of  what  I  should  say.  Strong  ties  of  friendship  had  been  formed 
while  we  lived  at  South  Bend,  and  the  idea  of  breaking  these  ties  was  an 
unpleasant  one.  After  a  half-hour's  thinking,  I  wrote  the  following, 
which  I  gave  as  my  little  farewell  talk. 

E  part,  beloved  friends,  today, 

To  meet,  we  know  not  when ; 
What  course  our  lives  asunder  take 

We  know  not  now,  but  then, 
Where'er  we  be,  on  land  or  sea, 

His  eye  doth  mark  our  ways, 
And  as  the  swift  years  take  their  flight, 

And  all  our  days  turn  yesterdays, 
'Tis  then,  sweet  friends,  we'll  cease  to 

roam, 
And  meet  again  in  God's  own  home. 

We  part,  beloved  friends,  'tis  true ; 

How  sweet  have  grown  our  ties, 
We've  forged  the  links  of  friendships 
dear, 

In  the  fires  of  sacrifice. 
We've  welded  them  with  arms  of  love, 

Which  bind  each  heart  to  heart, 
What  if  our  courses  now  divide, 

We  still  are  near,  tho  far  apart. 

We  part,  but  we  shall  meet  again, 

If  to  His  love  each  day  we're  true, 
And  some  sweet  day,  I  know  not  now, 

He'll  come  again  for  me,  and  you; 
And  in  one  great  triumphant  march, 

How  sweet  that  course  to  heav'n  will  be, 
We'll  then  go  on,  still  hand  in  hand, 

And  be  with  God  eternally. 


7] 


MY  SONG 


Sitting  in  my  room  one  dark  stormy  night  after  a  long  and  tiresome  day's 
work,  I  heard  beneath  me  the  strains  of  the  Flower  Song  played  by  the 
young  lady  in  whose  home  I  was  boarding.  When  she  had  about  half 
finished  I  felt  the  soothing  effect  of  the  music.  I  sat  thru  to  the  end  of 
the  piece,  and  then  going  down  stairs  I  asked  her  if  she  would  play  it 
again  as  it  had  given  me  a  thot  I  wished  to  copy.  Returning  to  my  room 
I  sat  down  and  when  the  song  was  again  completed  I  had  written 
"My  Song." 


G 


OMPANION  of  each  weary  hour, 

And  solace  when  life's  storm  clouds 
lower, 

Move  on,  thy  measures  soft  and  clear, 
Inspire  my  soul  and  banish  fear. 
Flow  thou  through  every  fibre  small 
And  bid  doubts  vanish  at  that  call. 
Just  linger  thou  within  my  heart 
When  storms  are  rife  and  doubts  oft 

start; 

Fill  thou  my  soul  to  its  o'erflow, 
And  purge  thou  it  ere  thou  dost  go. 
Yea,  grant  to  me  thy  healing  balm, 
Nor  leave  me  long  till  I  am  calm. 
Flow  on,  sweet  song,  sweet  song,  flow  on, 
Through  darksome  hours  till  peace  shall 

dawn. 


THOU  DYING  DAY 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year  1909, 1  was  returning  to  Tacoma  from  Fort 
Morgan,  Colorado,  where  I  had  been  spending  a  few  days  with  friends. 
We  were  in  northern  Wyoming  and  just  as  the  sun  went  down  the  train 
passed  over  a  high  trestle,  giving  a  spendid  panorama  in  which  the  set 
ting  sun  was  the  central  feature.  Realizing  that  that  was  the  last  time  I 
should  see  a  sunset  in  the  old  year  I  became  reminiscent.  I  sent  the 
enclosed  thot  in  a  letter  to  a  friend. 


o 


H,  stay,  them  lingering  twilight,  do, 
For  thy  passing  brings  a  tear; 

Yea,  at  thy  dying  fades  for  aye 
Another  swift  flown  year. 


Another  year — how  brief  the  time 
Since  first  those  bells  so  clear, 

Upon  the  midnight's  silent  air, 
Rang  in  thy  welcome  cheer. 

Another  year — ah,  can  it  be 
Twelve  months  have  flown  away, 

And  I  have  come  so  soon  to  see 
Thy  last,  lone  dying  day? 

Another  year — ah,  is  it  true 

That  each  and  every  hope 
Which  yet  has  failed,  but  promised 
bloom, 

Must  die  before  they  ope? 

Another  year,  ah,  yes,  'tis  true, 

Has  passed  fore'er  away, 
And  all  its  hopes  yet  unattained 

Must  die  as  dies  this  day. 

Another  year — "Forever  past," 

My  conscience  says  to  me ; 
Well  then,  dear  God,  since  such  must  be 

I  pledge  myself  to  thee, — 


That  thru  the  coming  year  my  work, 
My  plans,  my  all,  shall  be 

Here  dedicated  to  thy  cause — 
Myself  I  give  to  thee. 


10] 


A  SCENE  ON  PUGET  SOUND 

While  attending  the  State  Normal  School  at  Bellingham,  Washington, 
in  the  fall  of  1906,  it  was  always  a  favorite  pleasure  after  the  evening 
meal  to  stroll  up  to  the  top  of  Scheme  Hill  just  back  of  the  Normal 
School,  and  look  at  the  sunset  from  this  hill.  One  evening,  I  was  ac 
companied  by  a  young  lady  friend  who  enjoyed  painting  landscapes. 
She  had  painted  this  scene  overlooking  Bellingham  Bay,  and  she  play 
fully  remarked  that  I  should  paint  this  scene  in  a  word  picture.  The 
next  evening  was  a  beautiful  one,  so  after  dinner  I  took  paper  and  pencil 
and  went  alone  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  It  was  about  half  an  hour  before 
sunset.  By  twilight  I  had  finished  my  picture. 

PICTURE  you  would  have  me  paint, 
In  words  which  I  may  choose ; 
Give  all  the  tints  of  shades  and  sounds, 
Of  form  and  life  which  there  surrounds? 
My  scanty  sense  of  perfect  tints 
Will  scarce  permit,  or  lend  me  aid, 
To  paint  into  a  concrete  whole 
The  scene  which  now  thrills  thru  my  soul. 

Alone  I  sit  on  Sehome's  brow 
As  dewy  eve  draws  on  just  now, 
And  at  one  glance,  I  can,  perchance, 
Take  in  a  picture  grand. 
I  now  begin  my  paints  to  mix, 
And  paint  my  picture  as  if  fixt. 

For  background,  in  the  distance  then, 

I  scatter  isles  and  sky, 

In  haziness  they  then  recede, 

Unite,  grow  dun,  and  die. 

Beneath  these  spectral  grayish  hues, 

Which  ocean's  mists  have  formed, 

I  draw  a  line  tho  indistinct, 

Along  the  nether  side, 

To  bound  the  bay  where  waters  play 

Thruout  the  livelong  day. 

Shades  manifold,  of  green  and  gold, 

Upon  her  ruffled  surface  play. 


11 


To  left  there  rise  into  the  skies 

The  islands'  rough  bound  forms, 

While  at  their  feet  a  silv'ry  sheet 

Of  sunlit  waters  play. 

(As  if  the  welkin  way  had  dropt 

From  heaven's  dome  o'erhead). 

To  right,  the  Bay's  uneven  strands 

Grow  plainer,  show  her  whitened  sands, 

Until  the  city  breaks  the  views 

Of  Nature's  own  rich,  gorgeous  hues, 

And  plants  herself  like  some  proud  elf 

Within  my  picture,  too. 

Serene  and  quiet,  tho  never  still, 

As  if  pushed  on  by  stubborn  will, 

My  brush  into  the  foreground  plays 

And  shapes  the  wondrous  bay — 

That  mobile  form  which  e'er  transforms 

At  bidding  of  the  winds. 

Upon  her  breast  there  lay  at  rest 

A  dozen  ships  or  more. 

Theu:  spars  are  reft  of  sails  that  heft 

Each  one  upon  the  sea, 

And  there  they  nestle  close  about 

The  guardian  anchors,  strong  and  stout. 

In  yonder  left,  far  south  of  west, 

The  sun  in  splendor  sinks ; 

His  powerful  light  has  lost  its  might 

And  softened  into  gold — 

Ah,  yes,  and  gold  enriched  by  red — 

He  sinks  'midst  eve's  caress. 


12] 


As  if  to  bid  a  last  "good  night," 
The  heavens  retain  the  richest  light, 
And  sifts  it  o'er  her  spacious  dome, 
A  signal  she  is  left  alone. 
She  lingers,  pales,  pines,  and  moans, 
"Alas,  Today,  good  night,  my  own." 

And  now,  my  friend,  my  picture's  done, 

So  take  it  at  its  worth; 

'Tis  worth  but  nought,  real  Art  is  brot 

Forth  from  The  Artist  Hand. 

That  Artist  Hand  hath  shaped  mere  man, 

Endowed  him  somewhat,  too, 

He  sees  real  art  which  fills  his  heart, 

But  ne'er  can  it  express. 

Thus  finite  man  scans  God's  great  plan 

And  tries  to  imitate, 

And  I  surmise,  some  time,  some  how, 

He'll  greet  us  in  the  skies. 


[13] 


ERE  SLUMBERS  CLOSE  YOUR  EYES 

It  was  a  custom  for  several  years  previous  to  my  marriage  to  write  my 
future  wife  a  letter  each  Sunday  evening,  she  being  in  the  East,  while  I 
was  in  the  West.  At  the  close  of  each  letter  we  used  to  copy  a  little  thot 
which  we  had  selected  from  our  reading  during  the  previous  week.  On 
this  particular  evening  I  had  just  returned  from  church  where  I  had  heard 
a  sermon  on  the  Power  of  Prayer.  I  wrote  this  little  thot  as  a  "Good 
night"  thot  and  enclosed  it  in  my  letter.  Later,  after  our  marriage,  my 
wife  liked  the  thot  so  well  that  I  had  a  number  of  them  published  as 
mottoes  to  give  them  to  friends  who  likewise  liked  the  sentiment  ex 
pressed. 

EFORE  you  close  your  eyes  in  sleep, 
And  enter  dreamland's  realm, 
Just  think  of  Him  who  guides  your  life — 
The  Captain  at  Life's  helm. 
Just  lift  to  Him  a  prayer  of  thanks 
For  blessing  thee  today, 
And  ask  of  Hun  an  angel  guard 
To  hover  round  thy  head — 
Then,  close  your  eyes  in  slumbers  light, 
While  angels  guard  thee  thru  the  night. 


[14 


WHEN  WE  TALK  HEART  TO  HEART 

Written  one  evening  while  sitting  in  the  presence  of  a  young  lady  whose 
helpful  companionship  inspired  the  following  thot.  It  was  in  response 
to  a  request  that  I  write  a  thot  for  her  to  carry  with  her  during  an  absence. 

ETHINKS  sometimes,  when  thou  art 
near, 

And  we  talk  heart  to  heart, 
That  greater  power  to  apperceive 

The  truth  is  ours,  in  part. 

Our  souls  soar  high  to  other  worlds 
Where  none  but  we  may  roam, 

And  there,  with  thee,  I  talk  alone, 

Of  joy,  and  peace,  and  love,  and  home. 

The  cohorts  of  the  heavenly  throng 

Obey  our  each  command, 
And  thus  we  live  in  joy  and  bliss 

In  that  fair  and  lovely  land. 

We  see  the  greater  life  some  lead, 

And  judge  our  own  thereby, 
And  thus  we  strive  for  grander  heights, 

With  stronger  lives  we  vie. 

We  hear  the  songs  so  few  have  heard 

When  we  talk  heart  to  heart ; 
The  music  which  thrills  thru  our  souls 

Is  recompense  in  part. 

We  do  the  acts  which  lift  our  lives 

From  selfishness  to  love, 
And  hence  we  tend  to  nobler  heights, 

And  wend  our  way  above. 


[15] 


Then  may  those  moments  come  more  oft 
When  our  two  souls  take  flight, 

And  carry  us  into  those  realms 
Where  all  is  pure  delight. 


[16 


CANOEING 


While  camping  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Washington,  near  Seattle,  during 
the  summer  of  1907,  1  frequently  saw  young  people  out  canoeing.  Just 
beyond  our  camp  was  a  beautiful  cove  called  Lover's  Cove.  Many  times 
the  young  people  carried  with  them  books  or  fishing  poles  to  while  away 
the  time,  but  when  they  got  around  to  this  cove  they  usually  gave  up 
their  reading  or  fishing  and  began  lovemaking.  Coming  along  the  trail 
one  evening,  I  saw  a  friend  of  mine  in  a  canoe  with  a  girl  friend,  nearing 
Lover's  Cove.  I  returned  to  our  camp,  sat  down  and  wrote  the  follow 
ing  and  left  it  in  a  book  which  he  was  reading. 


the  evening  shadows  fall 
On  the  lake  and  on  the  wall, 
And  the  silv'ry  moon  is  rising  over  all, 
It  is  then  the  tune  to  go 
Out  upon  the  lake  to  row, 
Or  to  paddle  your  canoe,  don't  you  know? 
For  it's  then,  just  like  a  dove, 
You  can  coo  your  note  of  love, 
While  the  stars  are  shining  brightly,  just  above. 

Just  for  show  you  take  a  book, 
Or  perhaps  a  pole  and  hook, 

But  the  place  for  which  you're  bound  is  a  nook, 
Where  it's  all  so  very  still  — 
Just  a  ripple  from  a  rill  — 

Just  the  place  to  tell  your  love  with  a  will; 
And  it's  there  in  that  retreat 
That  Her  voice,  so  low  and  sweet, 

Whispers  just  the  words  you'd  hear,  so  discreet. 

Then,  when  home  again  you  row, 
Why,  you  paddle  —  just  —  so  —  s-l-o-w, 

That  —  you  —  hardly  —  seem  —  to  —  go  —  don't  you 

know? 

When  the  hour  to  part  draws  near, 
Why  you  feel  so  lonely  —  queer  — 

That  you  want  to  linger  longer  while  she's  near. 
Yet,  you  both  decided,  too, 
That  the  tune  in  which  to  woo 

Is  a  moonlight  night  while  paddling  a  canoe. 

[17] 


THE  FALLING  LEAVES 

In  Point  Defiance  Park,  at  Tacoma,  Washington,  there  is  a  large  bridge 
built  of  logs.  Just  beneath  and  a  little  above  this  bridge  there  is  a  pool 
alongside  of  which  is  a  rustic  seat.  One  afternoon  in  the  late  fall  of 
1909  I  was  sitting  on  this  seat  as  the  leaves  from  the  overhanging  trees 
were  falling.  Taking  a  notebook  from  my  pocket  I  wrote  hurriedly  the 
following,  completing  it  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

REMEMBER  well  when  springtime  breeze 

And  sunny  glances  drew  thee 
Slow  peeping  forth  from  out  thy  coat 

Of  sombre  hues  which  hid  thee. 


I  remember,  too,  when  summer's  sun 
To  emerald  green  had  changed  thee, 

And  how  thou  clungst  tenaciously 
When  gales  oft  tried  to  loose  thee. 

I  never  shall  forget  thy  shade 
Which  thou  oft  threw  to  shield  me, 

When  August's  sun,  in  blazing  wrath, 
Tried  hard  to  scorch  and  tan  me. 

I  saw  thee,  too,  when  Autumn's  king 
Transformed  thy  hues  forever, 

And  blushing  gold  and  crimson,  too, 
Thy  forms  began  to  quiver. 

And  yet  thou  still  remained  true 
To  boughs  which  long  had  borne  thee, 

In  gala  robes  thou  sat'st  in  state 
While  passers-by  adored  thee. 

But  now  I  see  thee  at  my  feet, 
All  crumpled,  brown,  and  faded, 

I  saw  thee  fall  from  yon  far  height, 
Which  still  with  leaves  is  laded. 


18 


To  dust  I  know  thou  must  return 
And  all  the  world  forget  thee, 

But  thou  hast  taught  me  still  to  love 
The  God  who  once  begat  thee. 

So  thru  this  life  one  thot  I'll  keep 
When  hopes  fall  fast  about  me — 

To  do  life's  work  as  best  I  can, 
And  trust  in  God  to  keep  me. 


19 


'TIS  THE  BITTER  WHICH  SWEETENS 
THE  JOY 

Late  one  winter's  night  I  returned  to  my  room  thru  a  rainstorm.  I  was 
quite  discouraged,  as  a  heavy  cold  had  threatened  me  with  pneumonia. 
Lighting  my  fire  I  sat  before  it  for  some  time  wondering  if  I  would  ever 
be  able  to  accomplish  anything  in  life.  On  the  table  lay  a  book  of  poems. 
I  opened  it  and  read  that  sweet,  sad  poem  beginning  with  the  line  "The 
day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary."  I  retired  but  could  not  sleep.  Later  I 
arose  and  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following. 

HE  night  is  dreary  and  the  wind  is  weary, 
Without  it  is  dark  and  cold; 
The  rain  beats  boldly,  and  the  fire  burns  slowly, 
Yes,  the  night  is  dark  and  cold. 


C: 


My  life  is  dreary,  and  my  mind  is  weary, 
Within  there  are  strifes  untold; 
There  lacks  all  the  beauty  that  should  go  with  duty, 
So  my  life  is  dark  and  cold. 

Nay,  nay,  thou  art  blessed,  it  must  be  confessed, 

That  life  should  have  some  alloy ; 

Thy  weakness  it  strengthens,  thy  life's  thread  it 

lengthens, 
'Tis  the  bitter  which  sweetens  the  joy. 

So  blow  on,  thou  wind,  and  torrents  descend, 
And  fill  all  the  night  with  thy  gloom ; 
Thou  art  the  alloy  which  sweetens  my  joy, 
Instead  of  foretelling  my  doom. 


[20] 


YOU 

One  afternoon  while  attending  school  at  Bellingham  I  was  sitting  in  the 
library  reading  when  a  young  lady  friend  with  whom  I  had  been  keeping 
company  for  several  months  passed  my  chair  and  leaned  over  and 
whispered,  "Hello,  you."  Later  in  the  afternoon  I  wrote  the  little  thot 
entitled  "You,"  and  handed  it  to  the  young  lady  that  evening. 

OU — just  a  thot  came  to  me, 

Refreshing,  bright,  and  clear, 
Flitting  by  in  retrospection, 
Hovering  closer,  ever  near. 


YOU — just  a  thot  from  God's  own  mind, 

Placed  in  plastic  clay, 
Ever  changing,  ne'er  remaining 

What  you  were  but  yesterday. 

YOU — just  a  word  that's  ever  speaking, 

Full  of  joy  and  helpf ulness ; 
Giving  strength  where  strength  is  wanting, 

Filling  life  with  blessedness. 

YOU — just  an  act  that's  ever  acting; 
Never  finished,  ne'er  relinquished, 
Consummate  perfection  thine, 
Urging  on  this  soul  of  mine. 

'Tis  you  and  I,  two  thots  I  link, 
Two  words  spoke  from  above, 

Two  acts  wrought  out  in  life,  methinks, 
And  therefore  made  to  love. 


21 


TWILIGHT  THOTS 

The  twilight  hours  have  always  been  the  most  pleasant  part  of 'the  day'to 
me,  and  for  many  years  I  enjoyed  going  out  alone  during  these[hours, 
contemplating  on  different  topics.  One  beautiful  evening  while  spend 
ing  the  summer  at  my  old  home  at  Kirksville,  Missouri,  I  sat  down  on.the 
porch  and  wrote  the  following. 


***** 

C5 


SILENCE 

HOU  harbinger  of  mind's  strange  themes — 
Dreams,  fancies, — all  that  thou  dost  bring — 
To  thee  I  dedicate,  I  consecrate,  Today's 
Last  waking  moments,  Tonight's  first  vigil's 

praise. 

This  present  Now,  which  Time  has  lent  to  me, 
I  give  to  thee,  thou  creature  sent 
To  tell  me  to  stop  and  think,  to  be  discreet, — 
Yea,  to  be  discreet,  and  so  I  think,  then  sleep. 

THE  REALMS  OF  SLUMBERLAND 

Silently  Night  gathers  about  her  those  robes  of  sombre 

hues, 
Places  upon  her  head  a  crown  of  diadems — the  myriad 

stars, 
Advances  in  the  wake  of  Day,  sprinkling  the  earth 

with  dews. 
Stooping  to  hush  the  birds  and  flowers  to  peaceful 

dreams, 
She  whispers,  "Be  still,  sleep  now,  to  thee  sweet  dreams." 

She  beckons  me  my  work  to  cease,  my  cares  release, 
To  linger  just  a  while,  to  stop  and  think,  then  close 

my  eyes, 

While  she  sings  lullabies,  to  soothe  me  off  to  sleep ; 
And  thus,  I  too,  with  birds  and  flowers,  obey  her 

sweet  command, 
And  soon  I  wander  off  into  the  realms  of  slumberland. 


22 


DISCOVERED— MY  PA 

Written  at  Ritzville,  Washington,  October  1,  1912,  upon  the  birth  of 
my  little  son,  Chilton  Lavoie  Allison. 

GUESS  that  fellow  bendin'  over  my  crib 

is  My  Pa; 
I  guess  that  fellow  whose  talk  is  so  glib 

is  My  Pa. 

I've  not  been  here  long,  my  days  are  but  three, 
But  there's  one  thing  that  even  a  baby  can  see — 
There's  one  man  in  town  who  toots  loud  for  me — 
He's  My  Pa. 

I  guess  that  man  whose  hat  won't  fit 

is  My  Pa; 
I  guess  that  fellow  who  thinks  he  is  it 

is  My  Pa. 

He's  a  short  fellow,  too,  as  proud  as  he  can  be, 
Yet  that  sweet-faced  lady  an'  I  both  agree, 
That  the  one  who  talks  of  nothing  but  me 

is  My  Pa. 

I  guess  that  the  man  who  wears  the  big  grin 

is  My  Pa; 
I  guess  that  man,  so  short  and  so  thin 

is  My  Pa. 

My  mother  is  that  beautiful  lady  in  white, 
With  a  voice  like  an  angel  singin'  at  night, 
But  that  proud,  struttin'  fellow,  I  know  him  all  right, 

He's  My  Pa. 


[23] 


WHY  SHOULD  I  CARE? 

In  the  summer  of  1907  while  camping  along  the  shores  of  Lake  Washing 
ton,  I  heard  one  day  of  the  death  of  a  little  golden-haired  child  which  had 
been  playing  near  our  camp.  I  had  not  paid  any  particular  attention 
to  this  child  until  I  heard  of  its  death.  Soon  afterwards  I  thot  I  would 
write  the  mother  a  note  of  condolence.  Trying  to  gather  my  thots  I  took 
a  stroll  along  the  shore  of  the  lake.  Before  going  far  I  heard  a  shot,  and 
proceeding  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came  I  saw  in  the  trail  a  bird 
which  had  just  been  shot.  It  was  only  a  common  waterfowl,  but  it 
seemed  to  impress  me  more  particularly  at  this  time  than  would  have 
usually  been  the  case.  Returning  to  my  camp,  I  sat  at  a  table  which  we 
had  placed  under  a  madrona  tree  in  front  of  the  tent.  As  I  started  to 
write  a  leaf  from  the  tree  fell  upon  my  paper.  This  seemed  to  work  right 
into  my  line  of  thot,  for  here  were  plant,  animal,  and  human  life  taken 
away  by  death.  Each  seemed  to  typify  certain  portions  of  the  last  verse 
of  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  first  Corinthians.  All  of  a  sudden  it  seemed 
as  tho  I  had  begun  to  remember  a  poem  and  hurriedly  I  copied  the  thot, 
which  I  later  gave  to  the  mother. 

WAS  only  a  leaf  that  fell  just  now, 

From  the  madrona's  bough  o'erhead ; 
'Twas  only  a  leaf  that  winged  its  flight 

From  the  living  to  the  ranks  of  the  dead. 
'Twas  only  a  leaf,  all  withered  and  brown — 

Just  one  of  a  million  or  more ; 
So  why  should  I  care  when  this  one  falls, 
When  there're  others  just  over  my  door? 

'Twas  only  a  bird  that  fell  just  now 

From  the  hunter's  shot  hard  by ; 
'Twas  only  a  bird  whose  song  contained 

Just  a  note  in  its  lullaby. 
'Twas  only  a  bird  of  a  myriad  throng, 

That  filled  the  wild  dell  with  its  glee, 
So  why  should  I  care  when  this  one  dies, 

When  there're  others  to  sing  for  me? 

'Twas  only  a  child  that  fell  today, 

By  Tune's  harsh  reaper's  hand ; 
'Twas  only  a  child  that  left  this  earth, 

Just  to  join  in  an  angel  band. 
'Twas  only  a  child  with  golden  curls, 

That  filled  the  whole  day  with  its  glee, 
So  why  should  I  care  when  this  one  leaves, 

When  there're  others  to  shout  for  me? 


24 


Why  should  I  care? — It's  plain  to  see 

That  we  love  them,  each  one  and  all, 
For  purity,  love,  and  innocence, 

Are  the  ties  by  the  which  they  enthrall. 
The  leaf,  by  its  faith  in  a  Providence'  care ; 

The  bird,  by  its  hopeful  song,  so  rare ; 
The  child,  by  its  love  so  pure  and  sweet; 

Ah,  these  are  the  reasons  why  I  should  care ! 


25 


THE  DEATH  KNELL  OF  THE  YEAR 

While  spending  the  Christmas  holidays  in  1908  with  my  sister  at  Prosser , 
Washington,  I  took  a  walk  of  several  miles  on  the  last  evening  of  the 
year.  Just  about  sundown  I  reached  the  summit  of  a  high,  bare  mountain 
overlooking  the  Yakima  Valley.  It  was  during  my  return  walk  that  the 
following  thot  took  shape  in  my  mind.  Upon  arriving  at  sister's  home 
I  sat  down  and  wrote  "The  Death  Knell  of  the  Year." 

LOW  sinking  down  yon  western  sky, 

Beyond  bleak  hills  so  white, 
The  sun,  far  southward  in  his  course, 

Shall  soon  give  way  to  night. 
And  as  the  lengthening  shadows  fall, 

So  ghostlike,  o'er  the  landscape  drear, 
I  feel  their  solemn  import  now, 
'Tis  the  death  knell  of  the  year. 

A  dying  year — how  sad  the  thought — 

So  soon  laid  in  its  shroud, 
A  year  which  seemed  so  full  of  hope, 

So  promising  and  proud 
Must  die,  as  sinks  yon  blood  red  orb, 

And  take  its  place  with  those 
Within  that  realm  of  "Use-To-Be," 

Where  live  past  joys  and  woes. 

Good-bye,  old  year,  thou  gave'st  to  me 

Thy  share  of  happiness, 
Thou  strewed'st  my  way  with  roses  fair — 

Sweet  flowers  of  blessedness. 
And  now,  I  pray  as  thou  art  borne 

To  thy  silent  tomb — the  Past — 
That  I  may  bury  with  thee  there, 

All  thoughts  that  should  not  last. 


26] 


CAMPING 

While  spending  the  summer  at  Ocean  Park,  Washington,  I  went  on  a 
camping  trip  with  sister  and  several  friends,  across  the  bay  to  the  main 
land.  The  country  was  wild  and  heavily  wooded.  We  would  spend  our 
time  fishing  trout,  gathering  berries,  shooting,  eating  and  sleeping.  One 
evening,  after  having  spent  a  day  tramping  thru  the  forests,  I  lay  down 
on  my  blanket  before  retiring  and  wrote  "Camping." 

HERE'S  a  time  that  I  love  'twixt  the 

spring  and  the  fall, 
When  a  fellow  feels  right  for  a  jaunt, 
When  he  wants  to  go  out  just  to  rough  it 

about, 

Like  a  wild  deer  in  its  haunt. 
Put  on  overalls,  a  sweater  and  shirt, 
Just  to  wallow  around  like  a  bear; 
You  bet,  that's  the  time  that  we  boys  all  agree, 
As  a  one  when  we're  free  from  all  care. 

Shoulder  an  ax,  and  a  gun,  and  a  pistol  or  two, 

And  a  tent,  and  two  blankets  or  more ; 
Some  bacon,  and  salt,  some  spuds,  then  we  halt, 

For  it's  these  and  nothing  else  more. 
Take  a  hike  for  the  woods  where  nobody  lives, 

But  the  deer  and  the  big  grizzly  bear, 
And  then  roam  about  and  fish  for  the  trout, 

Are  the  joys  of  which  few  are  aware. 


When  the  meal  hour  is  near  and  you're  most 
starved  to  death 

It  is  then  that  camp  lif  e  is  grand ; 
You  break  up  a  stick  and  kindle  it  quick, 

Put  the  spuds  to  bake  in  the  sand. 
Then  the  bacon  you'll  fry  on  the  top  of  a  rock, 

That's  a  smooth  one  you've  picked  from  the 

brook, 
Cut  a  fork  from  a  sprout,  and  then  fry  your  trout; 

Such  an  art  was  ne'er  bettered  by  cook. 


[27 


When  the  night  tune  draws  near  and  it's  quiet 
and  dark, 

Just  roll  in  your  blankets  and  snore, 
For  there's  nothing  to  hurt  you  save  'skeeters  and 
ticks, 

It's  just  these,  and  nothing  else  more. 
When  the  first  signs  of  day  are  streaking  the  east, 

And  the  bright  stars  are  fading  away, 
You're  ready  to  rise,  as  bright  as  the  skies, 

For  a  ramble  thru  another  whole  day. 

So  the  days  come  and  go,  all  too  quickly  for  us, 

When  the  bacon  and  spuds  are  all  out, 
Then  we  shoulder  what's  best,  and  leave  all  the  rest, 

And  strike  out  for  home,  oh,  so  stout. 
It  is  these  of  all  year,  that  are  bright  and  all  cheer, 

And  that  cause  us  to  lead  a  sweet  life, 
For  in  Nature's  own  home  is  the  one  where  I'll  roam, 

And  forget  all  my  trouble  and  strife. 


28 


BREAKING  CAMP 

On  the  last  day  of  August,  1907,  Amor  Foster  and  I  broke  camp  at  Lake 
Washington,  preparatory  to  our  going  to  our  school  work,  Amor  going  to 
Bellingham,  while  I  went  to  Tacoma  where  I  was  to  teach.  We  had 
eaten  our  lunch  at  camp,  after  which  we  began  to  pack  our  grips. 
Before  taking  down  our  tent,  I  told  Amor  I  wanted  to  write  a  little  thot 
and  nail  it  to  a  board  and  stick  this  board  on  the  spot  where  our  camp 
had  been  so  that  passers-by  might  know  that  this  spot  was  near  and  dear 
to  someone.  The  following  thot  was  written  and  left  there.  Two 
years  later  I  returned  to  Seattle  and  went  out  to  our  old  camp.  I  found 
the  board  still  there,  but  the  paper  with  "Breaking  Camp"  upon  it  was 
gone. 

OOD-BYE,  dear  old  camp,  we're  going  away, 

But  we're  sad,  when  we  had  it  to  learn ; 
Endeared  hast  thou  grown  for  thou  are 

enthroned 

In  our  hearts,  and  for  thee  we  shall  yearn. 
We're  going  away  for  another  whole  year, 

To  our  work  where  for  thee  we  shall  sigh; 
But  the  memories  sweet,  of  that  fond  retreat 
In  thy  bosom,  shall  follow  us  nigh. 

When  memory  calls  back  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

Which  has  burdened  us  sore  with  its  care, 
The  thots  of  the  hours, — those  dear,  precious  hours, — 

In  this  folds,  when,  as  free  as  the  hare, 
We  nestled  inside  of  thy  sheltering  folds, 

Or  roamed  the  wild  woods  in  our  joy, 
Ah!  these  are  the  thots  that  rest  us  so  oft, 

And  take  from  our  lives  its  alloy. 

The  times  that  we  read  and  the  tunes  that  we  sang, 

And  the  swims  that  we  had  in  the  lake ; 
And  the  rows  that  we  took  and  the  fish  we  would  hook, 

And  the  apples  which  oft  we  would  bake ; 
And  the  berries  we  picked  on  the  hillside  near  by, 

All  the  walks  by  the  lake's  ruffled  shore, 
Ah !  these  are  the  sweets  which  each  of  us  greets, 

But,  good-bye,  dear  old  camp,  they're  no  more. 


29 


Where  today  there  are  shouts  of  camp  life  so  gay, 
And  the  wild  woods  are  ringing  with  glee, 

Tomorrow's  bright  sun  will  have  scarcely  begun 
To  run  his  doomed  course  over  thee ; 

Till  silence  so  drear  shall  follow  his  course, 
And  the  clouds  shall  all  weep  till  they're  reft, 

And  the  birds  will  not  sing,  lest  to  mourn  they  shall 
bring 

All  the  woodland  which  late  was  so  blest. 

Good-bye,  dear  old  camp,  we're  going  away, 

May  thy  memories  sweet  follow  us, 
And  make  us  more  pure,  that  we  may  endure, 

All  life's  hardships  in  joyfulest  glee. 
And  tho  soon  overgrown  thou  shalt  be  by  the  fern, 

And  the  wild  vines  shall  trail  o'er  thy  way, 
Yet  so  close  thou  always  art  to  old  Nature's  throbbing 

heart, 

That  we'll  long  for  thee  and  come  to  thee  again  some 
day. 


[30] 


THE  TORRENT 

About  twelve  miles  out  from  Tacoma,  on  the  interurban  car  line  to 
Steilacoom,  just  before  the  Une  comes  out  to  the  Sound,  there  is  a  little 
station  where  one  leaves  the  car  to  walk  up  to  the  insane  asylum.  The 
trail  leading  there  roughly  parallels  a  beautiful  little  torrent,  which 
stream  empties  into  the  Sound  a  few  hundred  yards  below  the  station 
mentioned.  One  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  autumn  of  1909, 1  rode  out 
to  this  place  thinking  I  would  catch  an  inspiration  for  a  thot.  After 
walking  to  the  source  of  the  stream,  a  spring,  I  retraced  my  steps  to  its 
mouth,  a  distance  of  about  two  miles.  I  sat  down  on  the  sand  there  and 
wrote  the  following. 

ITHER,  thither,  yon  and  there, 
Circling  gracefully  everywhere, 
Rushing  on  o'er  pebbled  bed 
May  be  heard  the  torrent's  tread. 
Starting  from  some  tiny  rill, 
Rushing  pell-mell  down  the  hill, 
Gathering  speed  at  every  turn, 
Ocean  bound  all  may  discern. 

Now  I  see  its  silver  hue 
Turn  again  to  deepest  blue, 
As  it  rushes  on  o'er  stone, 
Then  subsides  in  eddies  lone. 
Gracefully  it  moves  along 
Chanting  weirdly  its  wild  song. 

List,  hi  treble  notes  so  clear, 
Comes  its  warble  to  my  ear; 
Then  far  off  in  sweet  refrain 
Echoes  back  the  alto's  strain. 
From  some  chasm's  depth  I  hear 
Dull,  deep  gutterals  so  drear, 
Then,  as  'gainst  some  stone  it  rolls, 
A  clear  tenor  it  unfolds. 

So  they  all  unite  in  tune 
Giving  forth  melodious  chime. 
Thus  by  Nature's  orchestra 


31 


Am  I  thrilled  and  held  to  pay 
My  poor  tribute  for  the  song 
Which  the  torrent  brings  along. 

Bubbling  streamlet,  ever  bring 
Just  the  song  you  love  to  sing, 
For  to  me  thou  always  art 
Expression  of  a  Loving  Heart. 
Tho  sometimes  your  way  seems  lost, 
Jostled  rude,  and  roughly  tost, 
Thou  dost  ever,  onward  flow, 
Always  forward,  just  as  tho 

Some  sure  hand  of  guiding  friend 
Led  thee  to  thy  course's  end. 
So,  dear  babbling,  warbling  stream, 
Take  my  thots  and  let  me  dream 
Of  the  power  that  guides  my  life 
Up  to  God  thru  pain  and  strife. 

And  perchance  as  thou  dost  flow 
Toward  the  ocean  far  below, 
Where,  serene,  thy  course  shall  be 
Swallowed  up  eternally, 
So  may  I  contented  be 
Journeying  toward  Eternity, 
Where,  fore'er  I'll  live  above, 
In  that  boundless  sea  of  Love. 


32 


DRIFTWOOD 

While  walking  one  evening  along  the  beach  at  Ocean  Park,  Washington, 
I  noticed  that  the  tide  had  brpt  to  shore  a  great  lot  of  driftwood.  Taking 
another  walk  the  next  evening  along  the  same  way,  I  noticed  that  the 
tide  had  come  in  again  and  carried  a  lot  of  this  drift  back  to  sea.  Sitting 
down  on  a  log  I  wrote  "Driftwood." 

S  to  the  shore  the  driftwood  floats, 
Borne  in  by  the  flooding  tide, 

It  there  remains  while  tide  regains 
Its  outer  ebbing  side. 

It  lays  there  thus  for  days  and  days, 

Beside  the  other  drifts; 
The  sun's  bright  rays  there  bleach  it  white, 

Perchance  before  it  shifts. 

At  length  a  rolling  wave  comes  in 

And  bears  it  out  to  sea, 
And  there  it  whirls,  like  children  play 

Unhindered  in  their  glee. 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea 

The  drift  is  borne  from  shore, 
Until  the  tide,  with  wind  allied, 

Its  course  is  turned  once  more. 

Again  it  drifts  in  to  the  shore 

And  lingers  there  awhile ; 
Amongst  the  drift  with  other  wood, 

It  lays  in  shapeless  pile. 

So  thus  between  the  sea  and  land 

The  driftwood  spends  its  time; 
It  touches,  lingers,  and  then  parts; 

Leaves  naught  for  thots  sublime. 


33 


So  are  our  lives  upon  life's  sea 
Tossed  hither,  yon,  and  there, 

Some  circumstance  may  throw  us  where 
Some  heartfelt  pain  we'll  share. 

We  touch  some  lives  each  day  we  live, 
As  tide-tossed  we  are  borne, 

And  we  little  dream  that  we're  supposed 
To  think  of  those  forlorn. 

But  unlike  drift,  which  never  gives 

Aught  of  itself  worth  while, 
Shall  we  not  meet  and  greet  each  one 

With  a  kindly  word  and  smile? 


[34] 


LIFE'S  WEB 

One  morning  while  taking  a  walk  from  my  room  to  school  I  noticed  that 
the  hillside  was  covered  with  myriads  of  cobwebs,  upon  which  the  dew 
had  collected.  The  morning  sun  shone  upon  these  webs,  bringing  them 
out  in  bold  relief.  This  gave  rise  to  the  analogy  to  life,  which  seemed 
to  be  composed  of  an  infinite  variety  of  threads,  all  of  which  united 
into  a  whole.  After  going  to  school  I  went  to  the  library  and  wrote  the 
following. 

YSTERIOUS,  but  simple  still,  is  life's 

unfolding  web. 
Each  day  we  see  the  silken  strands  we 

weave, 

But  silken-like,  they  float  away  at  eventide, 
And  ere  the  morning's  gold  drives  back  the  duller 

gray, 
The  strand  is  lost,  to  give  another  play. 

We  little  think  from  day  to  day  we  spin  aught  else 

but  strands, 
Until,  some  moment,  unaware,  we  catch  a  glimpse 

of  life 
(As  when  into  the  fountain's  pool  one  looks  into 

its  depths, 
And  sees  far  through  the  waters  clear  the  pebbles' 

various  forms), 
And  see  a  web,  the  strands  of  which  are  former 

acts  transformed. 

Since  life  is  ever  weaving,  thread  by  thread, 
Into  a  unity,  translucent,  well  defined, 
It  matters  much,  since  this  frail  form  spans  time, 
Fixt  'twixt  heaven,  the  limit,  and  earth,  the  variable 

sort, 
What  enters  it,  to  make  more  beauteous,  or  distort. 

So,  take  each  golden  moment  then  as  though  it 

were  the  last, 
And  fit  in  it,  as  in  the  ring  the  jeweler  fits  the 

sparkling  gem, 


35 


The  richest  thought  or  act  thy  life's  storehouse 

then  holds ; 
And  when  before  thy  Creator,  thy  life's  web's 

brought  to  light, 
'Twill  sparkle  in  radiant  beauty  in  His  own 

precious  sight. 


36 


THE  UNDISCOVERED  REALM 

The  theme  of  anticipation  has  always  been  a  pleasant  one  upon  which 
a  young  person  likes  to  dwell.  While  living  in  Tacoma  I  enjoyed  the 
association  of  a  number  of  young  people  whose  Sunday  School  teacher 
I  happened  to  be.  One  evening,  one  of  the  boys  came  to  my  room  and 
wanted  to  discuss  with  me  the  thing  for  which  he  seemed  to  be  best 
fitted.  He  was  a  young  man  with  dreams  of  fame,  yet  who  did  not  seem 
to  count  the  Present  as  having  any  great  bearing  upon  bis  future  status. 
I  told  him  I  would  think  over  the  thing  and  try  to  analyze  his  case,  giv 
ing  my  interpretation  of  his  present  state  of  mind,  but  that  he  himself 
must  work  out  its  solution. 


V^* 

C5 


HERE'S  a  beautiful  theme  which  to  you  I'll 

suggest, 

Of  a  mystical  realm  somewhere, 
In  which  there  are  joys  of  a  manifold  kind, 

And  of  gems  so  rich  and  so  fair. 
The  friends  which  we'll  meet  in  that  strange  blessed 

land 

Shall  be  helpful  and  ever  more  real, 
And  the  homes  we  shall  have  shall  be  mansions  of  stone, 
With  imposters  we  never  shall  deal. 

The  toil  we  shall  do  shall  tire  us  not, 

The  songs  which  we  sing  shall  be  gay; 
The  sickness  which  oft  robs  a  life  of  its  joy 

Shall  bother  us  not  in  that  day. 
The  birds  shall  sing  sweeter  by  far  than  they  do 

In  this  land  of  infinite  sound ; 
Sweet  mockingbird's  notes  shall  come  from  their 
throats, 

And  the  nightingale's  strain  shall  abound. 

The  breezes  shall  blow  in  soft  zephyrs  so  low, 

And  sweet  music  shall  lull  us  to  sleep ; 
And  Today's  little  woes,  and  Tomorrow's  death  throes, 

Shall  not  cause  us  to  moan  nor  to  weep. 
The  flowers  shall  still  bloom,  nor  shall  they  be  doomed 

To  die  in  the  fall  of  the  year; 
And  we  shall  be  strong,  of  a  numerous  throng, 

And  of  no  one  shall  we  have  any  fear. 


37 


Perhaps  you  would  know,  and  are  thinking  I'm  slow, 

Because  I  won't  tell  you  the  place, 
But  I  know  not  myself  but  from  what  I  can  hear, 

Nor  from  that  source  can  any  one  trace 
The  footsteps  that  lead  to  that  mystical  realm, 

Where  the  tear  never  falls  there  for  sorrow, 
But  somehow,  and  somewhy,  I  imagine  it  must 

Be  the  land  of  the  "Unreached  Tomorrow." 


38 


MYSELF 

Introspection,  as  a  means  to  self-help,  has  always  been  an  interesting 
line  of  thpt  to  me.  One  evening  while  indulging  in  this  line  of  thot,  I 
tried  to  picture  myself  as  I  really  am.  In  reflecting  over  various  thots 
and  acts  in  my  life  I  was  amazed  to  find  myself  always  face  to  face  with 
unexplainable  reasons  why  I  spoke  or  acted  in  certain  ways,  hence  the 
conclusion  that  life  is  mysterious. 

YSELF,  and  all  that  in  me  is, 
By  experience  gained  and  kept ; 
By  observation,  or  from  being  taught, 
By  reason,  inhibition,  from  being  bought — 
All  love,  all  power,  insight — all  traits — 
All  everything  that's  myself' s  or  fate's — 
I  count  it  all  mysterious. 

I  thot  I  knew  my  strength  was  small, 
But  it  baffled  giant's  powers ; 
I  thot  I  knew  where  the  wild  fowl  flew, 
But  vain  was  my  search  for  hours. 
I  thot  I  knew  the  plans  by  which 
Men's  minds  are  drawn  or  sundered, 
But  I  find  it  still  mysterious. 

I  crossed  a  path  as  I  strolled  along, 

And  fair  it  seemed  to  me ; 

Thru  meadows  green,  by  streamlets  pure, 

Its  course  seemed  just  to  lead 

To  the  path  I  trod  toward  Desire's  end, 

But  soon  it  turned  its  course's  trend, 

I  count  it  so  mysterious. 

Myself — God's  secret  in  this  house, 
So  plain  it  seems  to  be, 
That  each  new  thot,  or  word,  or  deed, 
Should  be  a  natural  consequence 
To  me,  whose  own  it  is  for  aye; 
But  still  I  must  confess  my  straits, 
I  count  myself  mysterious. 


39 


UNDERSTOOD 

One  evening  while  attending  a  New  Year's  party,  my  future  wife  had 
accepted  an  invitation  to  attend  this  party  with  another  young  man 
friend,  she  thinking  I  would  not  be  able  to  be  there.  I  arrived  late. 
During  the  evening  we  were  playing  a  game,  in  which  the  young  people 
were  paired  off.  As  she  drew  her  partner  our  eyes  met  each  other. 
Later  in  the  evening  we  were  asked  to  write  ten  or  twelve  lines  of  verse 
to  be  read.  I  wrote  the  following. 

WAS  just  a  glance,  that's  all, 

But  I  knew  you  understood. 
My  thots  were  thine,  no  need  of  tune, 
Nor  voice,  nor  proof  divine. 


When  two  souls  reach  those  heights 

Where  linger  fond  delights, 
Each  understands  the  other's  thot 

For  both  were  by  like  teaching  taught. 

Since  thru  the  eyes  the  soul  beams  forth 

Its  pent-up  feeling's  troth, 
You  knew  just  what  I  meant  perchance 

When  for  an  answer  I  gave  one  glance. 


40 


Non 

O 


O  BEAUTIFUL  BELLINGHAM  BAY 

Written  one  afternoon  while  sitting  in  the  library  of  the  Bellingham 
Normal  School,  just  prior  to  going  on  a  launch  party  out  on  the  bay. 

BEAUTIFUL  Bellingham  Bay, 

How  quiet  and  peaceful  she  lay, 

A  silv'ry  sheet  nestling  close  to  the  feet 

Of  the  mountains  wild  and  gray. 


Thou  makest  me  think  of  the  day, 

Thou  wonderful  Bellingham  Bay, 

When  Nature's  own  hand  shaped  thy  every  strand, 

In  her  reckless,  careless  way. 

She  fringed  thine  own  westerly  bound 
With  rock-ribbed  isles  from  the  Sound, 
Threw  in  whitened  sands  to  silver  thy  strands, 
Enriching  thy  nether  bound. 

On  thy  sun-greeting  shore  to  the  east, 
Lay  Bellingham,  far  from  the  least 
Of  cities  that  boast  of  a  numerous  host, 
And  a  homestead  by  the  sea. 

To  northward  and  westward  there  rise, 
Cutting  deep  thru  the  stretch  of  the  skies, 
Olympic's  proud  peaks,  Dame  Nature's  strange 

freaks, 
Just  to  awe  us,  I  surmise. 

Thy  southernmost  reach  stretches  far, 
To  Ocean  thy  gates  are  ajar; 
The  tide  ushered  in,  rushes  back  once  again, 
Thru  Deception's  dangerous  bar. 


41 


0  Beautiful  Bellingham  Bay, 
Thou  art  grander  day  by  day, 

1  love  thy  shores,  with  richest  lores, 
And  I  sing  to  thee  this  lay. 


42] 


TODAY 

While  in  school  at  Bellingham  I  was  editor  of  the  school  paper,  called 
"The  Messenger."  One  evening  as  I  sat  in  the  office  editing  the  copy 
a  friend  came  in  and  upon  being  asked  how  she  was  replied  that  it  had 
been  an  unsatisfactory  day  for  her  as  everything  she  did  seemed  to  go 
wrong.  After  a  few  minutes  she  went  out,  and  another  friend  came  in. 
In  reply  to  a  similar  question  the  response  was  so  cheerful  that  the  con 
trast  between  the  two  people  was  quite  noticeable.  Both  had  been 
seemingly  under  the  same  environment  during  the  day,  yet  one  had 
a  bad  day  while  the  other  had  a  glorious  one.  Before  leaving  the  office 
the  two  thots  brought  out  "As  Some  People  See  Today"  and  "As  Other 
People  See  Today." 

AS  SOME  PEOPLE  SEE  TODAY 
ODAY?    Yes,  today  is  but  the  allowance 
Time  gives  to  sun  and  moon, 
To  run  their  certain  course  thru  the 
Limitless  expanse  of  the  heavens; 

Just  a  stitch  which  Father  Time 

Has  taken  in  weaving  Eternity; 

Just  a  few  hours  for  sun  to  shine, 

Just  a  few  hours  to  weep, 

Just  a  few  hours  for  man  to  toil, 

Idle  awhile,  and  then  to  sleep. 


43 


AS  OTHER  PEOPLE  SEE  TODAY 

ODAY — a  rich  and  sparkling  gem,  from  God's 

storehouse  of  Tune, 
Set  full  with  four  and  twenty  hours,  mere  specks, 

so  infinitely  fine, 
So  rich,  so  grand,  so  full  perchance, 
That  I  have  caught  but  just  one  glance ; 
Improved  so  few  of  moments  true,  and  scarce  begun,  yes, 

left  undone 

A  thousand  things  that  would  have  brot  me  nearer  God — 
the  Perfect  Thot. 

Today,  which  from  Eternity  wrung  recognition  for  its 

worth; 

Worth?  What  worth  a  day  in  Eternity's  sight 
When  ceaseless  aeons  are  not  a  mite — 
Nay,  less  a  lightning  flash  at  night? 
"What  claim  has  today,"  the  Ages  ask, 
"For  raying  Father  Time  to  check  the  speeding  hours 

of  its  own  day? 

Is  it  more  rich,  more  full,  more  gay, 
That  man  might  wish  it  to  delay? 
Do  its  few  hours  bring  greater  dowers  than  other 

passed  days? 
Does  its  sunshine  at  ev'n  decline  with  shades  more 

manifold? 
Or  are  its  hours  like  those  of  ours,  and  those  which 

yet  shall  be?" 

O  mournful  Past,  why  dost  thou  grasp  my  unused,  fair 

Today! 

Its  opportunities  are  at  my  command, 
While  yours  are  far  from  touch  of  hand ; 


So  I  love  Today,  for  from  it  I  may  gain  truth  and  help 
fulness  ; 

But  you  have  gone,  ne'er  to  return,  so  you  I  must,  I  will 
e'er  spurn. 

Oh,  grant  me,  thou  Infinite  One,  true  meaning  of  Today. 
And  from  its  fleeting  hours  so  few,  grant  me  just  this  one 

boon — 
To  see,  to  act,  to  consummate  some  noble  deed  for  Thee. 


[45 


THE  OLD  CHERRY  TREE 

Along  in  the  month  of  May,  1908,  I  was  planning  to  take  a  trip  from 
Tacoma  back  to  my  old  home  at  Kirksville,  Missouri.  A  few  weeks 
previous  to  my  trip  I  wrote  my  mother,  asking  her  if  she  would  speak  to 
our  old  neighbor,  Mrs.  Smith,  asking  her  if  she  would  leave  some  cherries 
for  me  to  pick  when  I  got  home.  Earlier  in  life  I  had  frequently  picked 
the  cherries  from  an  old  tree  in  this  neighbor's  yard.  A  week  or  ten  days 
later  I  received  a  letter  from  mother  in  which  she  said  the  old  tree  had 
died  and  had  been  cut  down.  This  information  give  rise  to  the  thot 
contained  in  "The  Old  Cherry  Tree." 

'HAT !  is  the  old  cherry  tree  which  stood  by  the 

shed — 

My  old  cherry  tree,  tell  me  true,  is  it  dead? 
Yes?  Oh,  scarce  can  I  believe  it,  for  so  short 

time  ago, 

I  saw  it,  I  touched  it,  I  climbed  its  boughs  low. 
But  you  say  it  is,  and  has  now  been  cut  down. 
Well,  'twill  seem  very  lonesome  to  return  to  the  town, 
And  to  come  to  the  home  to  which  often  I  came, 
And  not  see  the  tree  there,  which,  always  the  same, 
Gave  forth  from  its  dome-shaped  form  overhead 
Its  riches  of  fragrance,  its  cherries  so  red. 

Oh,  oft  have  I  risen  in  the  morn's  early  dawn, 
Tript  down  from  my  room,  and  out  on  the  lawn, 
And  looked  toward  the  dear  old  tree  'cross  the  way, 
And  dreamed  of  the  harvest  I'd  pluck  during  May, 
As  caught  from  the  zephyr,  its  fragrance  so  sweet, 
Which,  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  morning,  I'd  greet. 
I've  wondered  so  oft  as  I  saw  it  in  bloom, 
So  pure  and  so  white,  if  in  heaven  there's  room 
For  the  flowers  which  on  earth  have  budded  and  blown ; 
Ah,  I  would  that  my  way  with  such  sweetness  were 
strewn. 

Ah,  well  do  I  know  too  that  some  later  there  came 
The  falling  of  petals,  like  snow  on  the  main; 
And  tho  Beauty  was  ruthlessly  torn  from  the  bough, 
I  never  once  questioned  the  Why,  nor  the  How, 
For  it  must  needs  be  that  the  petals  must  go, 

[461 


And  leave  opportunity  for  the  cherries  to  grow. 
So  I  greeted  their  falling  without  any  pain, 
Just  knowing  full  well  that  the  fruit  would  retain 
All  the  sweetness  of  petals,  which,  multiplied  oft, 
Would  round  into  fruitage  so  rich  and  so  soft. 

Ah,  well  do  I  know  too  that  May  came  at  last, 
When,  all  in  a  cardinal  robe,  crown  and  sash, 
The  cherry  tree  rose  to  the  rank  of  a  king, 
While  at  his  feet  humbly  my  homage  I'd  bring. 
But  far  more  haughty  were  the  robin  and  jay, 
Who  pecked  at  the  rubies  he  wore  for  display. 
Till  from  sheer  consternation  lest  his  beauty  be  shed, 
I  climbed  up  its  shoulders,  and  onto  its  head, 
And  with  my  own  hands  from  the  kingly  tree  drew, 
The  gems  from  the  crown  and  the  robe's  scarlet  hue. 

Ah,  oft  I  recalled  when  his  garments  I've  stript, 

I've  watched  the  bird  robbers  as  often  they  tript 

Thru  the  emerald  branches,  still  hoping  to  find 

A  ruby  red  cherry  I'd  left  there  behind, 

But  when  disappointed,  they  flew  far  away. 

I've  wondered  if  God  would  again  send  the  day 

When  they  would  return  to  the  old  cherry  tree 

For  another  rich  feast  and  more  bickerings  with  me ; 

And  if  thru  the  seasons  which  bring  the  cold  snow 

He'd  shield  them  from  hunger,  and  suffering,  and  woe. 

Ah,  yes,  I  remember  when  autumn's  frost  king 
Oft  chilled  the  tree's  leaves,  until  they  could  cling 
No  longer  onto  the  kind  sheltering  boughs, 
For  unto  the  earth  they  must  then  pay  their  vows 
For  the  richness  of  joy  thru  the  fair  summer  clime, 
Ah,  yes,  to  the  bosom  of  that  mother  divine, 
They  must  go  once  again  for  a  long  winter's  sleep, 


47] 


Nor  show  signs  of  grieving,  nay,  none  ever  weep, 

For  the  old  cherry  tree  had  long  since  found  out 

That  the  sleep  of  the  winter  would  wake  in  spring  sprout. 

Yes,  the  old  tree  is  gone,  with  its  leaves  and  its  fruit, 

But  still  mem'ry  holds,  tho  sadly,  and  mute, 

The  thots  of  what  was,  which  I  shall  e'er  hold, 

As  a  fond  recollection  more  precious  than  gold. 

I  shall  thank  my  dear  God  for  the  joys  that  it  brot, 

For  the  lessons  sublime  which  often  it  taught, 

For  the  beauty  in  life  I  may  glean  day  by  day, 

For  the  fruitage  of  character  which  swells  on  life's  way, 

For  the  hope  of  an  immortal  life  in  the  sky, 

Where  friends  and  the  cherry  trees  never  shall  die. 


48 


V  l^AVOl  A  J. 


JUJLDXWVEV.  Jl 


Los  Angeles 
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